The Thin Line Between Love and Hate
by The Fallen Empress
Summary: Leliana had said Zevran was more complex than he let on. She couldn't be more wrong – Zevran was not only complex: he was infuriating. – Zevran x F!Surana. Rating subject to change.
1. Chapter 1

**The Thin Line Between Love and Hate**

_Summary: Leliana had said Zevran was more complex than he let on. She couldn't be more wrong – Zevran was not only complex: he was infuriating_

* * *

He is staring at her again. He does that often. When he'd started doing it, Filauria had been patient enough to pay him no heed. He just must have been wary of the new company, she thought. After all, Leliana and Alistair also does Zevran a lot of staring, albeit suspiciously.

But having him stare at her after a long day of fighting darkspawn and mercenaries and _fucking spiders _is not helping placate her irritation.

"Would you _stop _that!" Filauria snaps at the elf not too far away from her.

Zevran simply shoots her an amused look before idly twirling the hilt of his Crow dagger around his fingers and looking away with a smirk.

Filauria grits her teeth and rakes her long fingers through raven-black hair away from her face in frustration.

Mana-depletion has always soured her mood. On top of that, she is tired and hungry and filthy and – she casts an angry glance at Zevran whose eyes just started following her once more – _she is seriously debating on poking his eyes out._

And she would have, had Leliana not pointed out that they are nearing camp and that it looks like Wynne had already cooked dinner.

Filauria bolts to the bowl of stew at a moment's notice.

"Sometimes I wonder how she's even that _small_," Alistair muses out loud, watching her wolf down her share of tonight's ration.

Somewhere behind her, Leliana giggles. But frankly, she is just too hungry to pay them notice – for now.

She is just about to finish her bowl when the light-haired assassin sits to her left.

Filauria scowls. "What do you want?" she snaps at him in between mouthfuls.

"Don't talk when your mouth is full, 'Lauria," Wynne chides from across the campfire. The raven-haired elf, whose hunger is now sated enough to remember how table etiquette works, glances up at her sheepishly before consciously wiping the corners of her mouth with the back of her hand.

Beside her, Zevran laughs. "What a fine-mannered lady you are, no? You would put even the finest women of Orlais to shame!"

Her scowl deepens as she looks away, hiding the embarrassed blush that colors her face.

"Her manners _are_ something, I'll give you that." While she is used to Alistair's friendly teasing, she isn't quite fond of the fact that he is doing it in front of the latest addition to their merry band of misfits.

Not even five days after his recruitment, and the group already acts like they are accustomed to the assassin's presence. There are suspicious glances here and there, sure, but no more hostile glares were thrown in his way – well, save for Filauria of course.

"Say that again when I save your sorry ass from bleeding to oblivion," she shoots back, bringing another scoop from her bowl to her mouth.

Alistair laughs. "Hey, Wynne's here. I think I'll manage."

"Oh, you know that I can't keep up with the lot of you as well as I should," Wynne says in her usual moderated voice. "Having another spirit healer saves a lot of trouble." The older woman stands and gingerly takes the clay bowls from their hands.

"I shall go clean these up. Go and wash the blood out of your faces, please," she says, casting Filauria a specific look before turning away.

The raven-haired mage sticks her tongue out at Alistair once Wynne is out of sight.

Alistair returns the gesture with funny face of his own before he moves away to wash up.

"I will help you as soon as I am ready, Wynne," Leliana offers as she hastily jogged to her tent.

Filauria is just about to stand when Zevran's voice stops her.

"Aren't you supposed to be volunteering to help as well?" he smiles, smiling up at her.

Filauria narrows her eyes at him as she crosses her arms. "Aren't you the little sexist?"

Slowly, Zevran stands and takes five small steps towards her until he is merely a whisper away from her petite frame. At this proximity, one can clearly see the height difference between the two. The assassin is about a head taller than she is… but that doesn't mean she is backing down.

She gives him a challenging look as she straightens her posture.

"Well if you really want to talk about sex," Zevran said in a low, teasing voice, "I'd be more than happy to oblige."

She feels her cheeks flame.

Filauria opens her mouth. And closes it again.

Andraste's ass – she has turned completely mum!

With a final glare, she raises her chin and storms away with all the little shreds of dignity she had left.

_She hates him._

* * *

**A/N: **Before anything else, I would like to say that I truly, truly, truly intend to see this through the end. I am beginning to think short-chaptered fanfictions are the right kind for me. Anyway, I have about 10 chapters down and I don't know how many more to go! For now I am rating this T, but I might change it up to M if need be.

I am... sort of just going with the flow with this fanfiction with a clear-cut destination but unclear directions.

Oh well.

Fret not, I shall finish this one.

So psyched for DAI by the way!

Review~


	2. Chapter 2

Almost two weeks of following her every move has allowed him to memorize her little quirks –like how the corner of her mouth twitches up ever-so-slightly when she is lying for example.

"Don't worry," she says to the elven lass by the Redcliffe chantry, "I'm sure your brother is alive – I will do what I can to find him."

"Oh, thank you, Grey Warden! You are most kind!" the elven girl says, relief overflowing her tone. "He is most probably still at our former home. Please – _please_ find him. Take him back to me."

Filauria nods and adjusts her staff at her back. "I will."

"That is if he is not yet ripped to shreds by these 'walking dead'," Morrigan mutters under her breath as they walk out of the chantry to talk to Murdock.

"Could you be _any_ more pessimistic!" Alistair snaps at the witch. Zevran thinks that the state of the village has pushed past his already thin patience for the woman.

Zevran steps close to Filauria. "You do not think we will find the boy, do you?" he asks. He notices her furrowed eyebrows and her frown, and he resists the urge to brush his thumb along her brows and her lips to erase the worry painted on her face.

"In truth, I don't know what to think," she answers him. "We've already enough problem regarding the darkspawn and now _this_?" She sweeps her right hand around her with one swift motion. "It leaves me asking if this is some kind of punishment the Maker has been bestowing on mankind."

"Truly, we do not know what the Maker's reasons are," Leliana comments nearby, having heard Filauria's confession. "But we should trust that he is doing this for the good of many."

Zevran trains his light brown eyes at the bard for a moment before looking back at Filauria. There is a certain tightness to her lips that signifies that she wishes to say something, but is debating on voicing it out. Zevran thinks it must be about Leliana's devoted belief.

Zevran isn't an unbeliever, but he can't say that he is a believer either. Maker or none, the life he lives is his own. Filauria, on the other hand, believes in the higher power – but being a mage under the constant surveillance of the Templars has made her wary of Andrasteism, and how it is being governed.

Filauria is an odd thing, he decides. She is the opposite of herself. She is both trusting and untrusting, sure and unsure, kind and… deadly.

There is a kind of victory in her eyes as she casts her final blow towards her opponents, but her eyes clouds with guilt as she watches their corpses litter the ground. Like she revels on the fact that she has great amount of power – but is unsure about what it says about her. He supposes this is why she had bought that spirit healing manual at Denerim after she'd recruited him.

While she is not nearly as good as Wynne, Filauria's hands are gentle when she heals, but her primal spells are powerful, even more so than Morrigan's – she is able to summon a blizzard with a blink of an eye.

He watches as she speaks to the people of Redcliffe with carefully-chosen words, weaving them into a web of strategy that only she is able to create. He watches as her dark hair flies around her as she summons a tempest. He watches as her amber-gold eyes lights aflame as she conjures her spells and falls her enemies.

Filauria is like a force of nature, Zevran thinks. Unpredictable, powerful and… strangely addicting.

* * *

**A/N: **Hello, it's me again. Thank you for the follows, guys! I am so happy that some are taking interest in this fanfiction of mine. :)

Oh, and I forgot to put this on the last chapter but: I am sure you're all surprised, but I don't actually own Dragon Age.

Do tell me what you think about this one. (winks)


	3. Chapter 3

"So this… Jowan," Zevran starts, sharpening his blade beside where she sits, "was he a friend?"

Filauria scowls. "That's none of your business," she says, eyes studying the diagrams drawn on the pages of the book in her hands. The Flow of Mana – the cover read. It is something she borrowed from Wynne to further understand the components of healing magic.

"I heard he was in the circle with you before," the light-haired elf continues, already used to her hostile demean or towards him. "Was he your lover?"

Filauria snaps the book shut and gives him a pointed glare. She truly is not ready to talk about Jowan yet – after all that has happened, the wound etched to her heart by the one person she ever loved was still red and sore and _painful_.

"Who told you that you could meddle with my personal life, huh?" she snaps.

Zevran turns towards her with an unreadable expression. "So a one-sided love, huh? What did he do? Did he elope with another mage and ask you to take care of the wedding preparations?"

Filauria clenched her fists and gritted her teeth. "Shut up! You know _nothing _about me!"

"I take it that didn't end well, no? Seeing that he is now branded an apostate and a maleficar," the assassin says, his voice deceptively calm. "What happened? Did you perhaps ruin his happiness out of your selfish desires?"

She feels her hands shaking. It is painful in her head, but it is even more so when it is said out loud. Filauria does not know how Zevran is so close to the truth but it _hurts_.

She remembers it like it was yesterday – throughout her circle life, Jowan had been the one constant flame that warmed her existence. The First Enchanter and all her mentors thought she was a prodigy – she'd received the highest marks in her classes and she was very quick to learn… but it also meant that she was under constant watch as well.

The Templars were everywhere – it was as if they were _waiting_ for her to make the wrong move: to nick her finger and summon a monster. Being under surveillance also meant having less friends. The circle mages were already wary of the Templars as they were, and being under their watchful gazes every minute of the day was enough to drive a person mad. But Jowan – Jowan hadn't cared about all that.

Jowan had been there. Jowan had _stayed_.

…And yet she betrayed him.

What if she hadn't told Irving? Would things have gone differently?

Zevran stands and takes one step towards her rigid posture. He takes that step slowly, like a silent predator. "And now he is locked behind bars waiting for his death and it is _all your fault_."

That does it. Before she even has time to think, she feels the tendrils of magic on the tips of her fingers. Suddenly, Zevran is spasming on the ground. Sparks cover his whole body and she sees red. It is not enough – it is not nearly enough!

She raises both her hands and reaches to the fade. She takes a deep breath and _pulls_ –

But just like that the connection is severed.

She feels Alistair's cold gauntlets against her skin and she hears his urgent voice in her ear. "Enough, Filauria! You'll kill him!"

Filauria blinks. Wynne has emerged beside Zevran, urgently tending to his wounds. Leliana is standing nearby with both her palms covering her mouth in shock. Sten stands near Alistair, his sword ready, and Morrigan watches the scene curiously from afar.

"That's enough," Alistair repeats, softly this time, as he pulls her arms to her sides and turns her to him.

When her eyes meet his, everything around her blurs.

And then she is crying.

* * *

**A/N: **And here's another chapter for y'all. Thanks to those who take time to review, I really, really do appreciate your feedbacks. Next chapter comes out on three days or so.

Tell me what you think about this one! :)


	4. Chapter 4

She doesn't remember ever crying before. In the circle, it is essential to keep emotions in check. It is very easy to lose control when one is too happy or too sad.

Or too angry, a voice in her head adds.

She glances at the tent before her.

She shouldn't have done what she did. It hadn't been right to channel all that anger into one person. Especially when he isn't even the reason why she's angry.

His prodding had been detrimental to her losing control, sure. But she isn't angry. Not at him. She is angry at _herself_.

From the moment she left the circle, she'd been careful to keep her emotions in check. There is no time to grieve, she'd to herself. The blight is upon us. There are bigger things to worry about.

Forget it. Forget your grief. It is not important.

But then… seeing Jowan again had made her relieve everything. The pain – the guilt… the _anger_.

For a few moments she could not speak. She could only look at him in shock.

Is this an illusion? She thought. A demon messing with her mind?

But no. The moment he'd opened his mouth and said her name, she had known that it was real.

_"Filauria?"_

She closes her eyes.

_Too soon_.

She hears the rustle of clothing just as Wynne emerges from Zevran's tent.

She gives Filauria a stern look. "I trust that you don't try to kill him this time?" the older mage says sternly.

Filauria fights the urge to wince at the comment. "I promise not to," she says in a small voice.

Wynne crosses her arms at her chest. "We shall talk later," she says before she walks away.

Filauria sighs and stares at the mud-stained tent for a moment before poking her head inside. Zevran watches her warily from where he is lying. She sees the bandages wrapped around his torso and the burnt skin by his right shoulder and she cringes in shame.

"I… I'm sorry," she says, wringing her hands together.

Zevran says nothing. Every second under his unreadable gaze weighs her guilt-ridden posture down more and more.

"I… I didn't mean to do that. I usually don't lose control. I –" She finds his eyes and they lock for a moment before she looks away again. "Truly, I do not know what I can do to make it up to you."

She turns to Zevran again. He is still watching her silently.

Filauria bites her lower lip. "Say something?" she says softly.

The elven assassin draws a breath and sighs. "I guess I sort of deserved it," he says to her.

She looks for resentment in his eyes, of disgust, of hate, but she finds nothing. There is only a silent understanding in them. Realization suddenly dawns on her.

"You knew," she whispers in shock. "You knew I was going to lose control if you did that."

Zevran half-nods. "Yes. I suppose I did."

"But why did you do it!" she asks, her eyes wide with shock. "I could've _killed _you!"

The assassin shrugged, and flinched just after the gesture. Filauria's eyes find the burn on his shoulder again and she is suddenly on her knees beside him.

"Let me," she says, looking to his face for approval before gently pouring healing magic unto his charred skin.

Zevran watches her silently, as he always does. Somehow, rather than being annoyed, the gesture makes her self-conscious this time.

"You shouldn't have done that," she says to him. "What if Alistair hadn't been there to stop me?"

Zevran shrugged again, but using only his left shoulder this time. "We all get to die at one point or another," Zevran answers vaguely. "I could have died when I tried to assassinate you. Or I die if I go back to the Crows. Or I could've died today. We all die eventually."

Filauria shoots him an incredulous look. "You are one suicidal elf, you know that?"

Zevran laughs. Inside, Filauria is relieved that the atmosphere around them has lightened a bit. "Remind me to never get on your bad side again," Zevran says.

Filauria scoffs as she watches the skin on his shoulder knit together. She pumps more healing magic to his wound until it is completely healed. She draws back with a slight pant.

"You needn't have healed that all the way," he says, watching her wipe the sweat out of her forehead.

"Humor me," Filauria replies. "I just tried to kill you."

Zevran laughs again. His laugh is beautiful, she decides. Melodic and not at all pretentious. "Point taken," he grins at her.

Filauria licks her lips nervously before looking away. "I really am sorry, you know," she repeats. "And… thank you."

"You are welcome, my warden."

* * *

**A/N: **Hey there guys! I received a request about changing the length of the chapters. However, I do not think that is possible for me because I've found that I have a higher probability of finishing a fanfic if the chapters are short. Rest assured, however, that the length of my chapters means regular update. (Every three days or so.)

Thanks for all the support. Drop a review for me!


	5. Chapter 5

He had begun calling her 'my warden' now, when before he just called her 'Warden.'

Filauria does not know what to think of the little change. For one, all her companions seems to think it was nothing to think too seriously upon. Zevran, after all, flirted with almost _everybody_.

Save Sten, of course. And Filauria understood why.

Moreover, Sten had been more watchful of her ever since her little… _incident_.

"Alright," she says as she finishes packing her freshly-brewed health and lyrium potions. "Four of us can go to Honnleath. The rest can stay here and guard camp. It is not too far from here, according to the map Felix had given me. We will be back after a day or so."

The rest of the party nods towards her general direction, still not meeting her eyes.

Filaruia sighs inwardly. Although Zevran had forgiven her, the rest (save for Morrigan and James, her mabari) of the party still seems watchful of any change in her demeanour. She thinks she deserves it. Although she silently hopes that it is not too hard to regain their trust in the days that follow. Alistair, at least is a bit more understanding. But she thinks it is because she and he are siblings of sorts now – the only other person he has.

"Right." She clears her throat. "I was thinking maybe Alistair, Zevran and James come with me. The rest can stay here."

Nods again. This time, she doesn't even bother to hide her sigh.

"You know that I will follow you anywhere, my warden," Zevran says in a light voice. She knows he is only trying to ease her mood.

"Right," she says again, flinging her pack across her shoulder. "Let's go."

* * *

**A/N:** Hi, I'm sorry I wasn't able to update soon. My classes just started and I didn't bring my laptop when I packed my things and went off to my dormitory far, far away from home.

Anyway, please review! The next chapter or so will be long. (Longer than the previous ones, actually.)


	6. Chapter 6

"I swear; if this country becomes even colder, I'm going to have icicles dangling down my nostrils," Alistair comments dryly as they walk down the dirt road, away from Honnleath.

Shale is stomping happily behind them. "What did I say about my body being convenient? I feel not cold nor heat. The things that inconveniences it does not inconvenience me," the talking golem comments, admiring the newly-fused gems adorning his 'armor.'

"'It' is standing right here, and 'it' doesn't like to be referred to as 'it', thank you very much," Filauria scowls, kicking the ground idly with her right foot. On a normal day she'd probably be happy that a new ally has been added to their team… but it wasn't a normal day.

Going back to camp meant cautious stares and depressing atmospheres.

She casts a glance at Zevran and finds that even though it is he who had provoked her to do what she'd done, she couldn't find it in her to be angry at him.

In a way, she needed to take all that anger out of her system

He knew it as well.

"Ah, in a weather like this one, it is hard to not miss Antiva," Zevran muses out loud. "It is a warm place; not cold and harsh like this Ferelden. In Antiva it rains often, but the flowers are always in bloom… or so the saying goes."

"And it has assassins," Filauria comments under her breath, rolling her eyes.

Zevran casts her an amused look. "Every land has its assassins – some are simply more open about their business than others."

When she does not answer, he simply continues. "I hail from the glorious Antiva City – home to the royal palace. It's a glittering gem amidst the sand, my Antiva City." He turns to her good-naturedly. "Do you come from some place comparable?"

"Oh, yes, the Circle Tower of Ferelden is very marvelous," Filauria answers with feigned excitement. "Overlooking the northern windows is the northern mountains. To the west is Lake Calenhad – it looks absolutely magnificent during sunrise. To the south is another part of the lake; in here you can just see the side of the village near the docks."

She closes her eyes for a moment and she can almost imagine looking past the large, barred windows with longing. "And to the west, you can see the vast forests that the circle mages are absolutely forbidden to see," she continues, her tone gaining ferocity. "The villages of the people they are absolutely forbidden to mingle with because they are dangerous and should be kept locked inside a tower because they are _monsters_."

She feels Alistair stiffen beside her, suddenly wary of her little outburst. She almost sends him an exasperated look, but Zevran catches her eyes.

He smiles at her, but his smile is sad, almost… sympathetic.

"I apologize if I'd offended you, my warden," he says, stopping a few feet in front of her.

She hadn't realized she'd stopped walking first. Alistair, James and Shale had stopped walking, too, the last watching the scene curiously.

"For what it's worth, I was not referring to the Circle of Magi," he continues. "I was referring to your life before that." The assassin turns around and starts walking again, continuing his stories of Antiva. Filauria follows at a distance. Alistair gives her a concerned glance, but she brushes his concern off silently.

Later that night at the campfire, while the others are curiously hovering around Shale with different questions, she sits beside Zevran.

"I've no recollections of my life before the Circle," she tells him quietly. She watches the campfire flicker before her eyes. "It was not a life I would've wanted for myself or for anyone but… I guess I also felt happy, at times."

She remembers the feasts Irving would throw them whenever someone would pass the harrowing. She remembers the childish pranks she and her classmates would do – fart bombs, buckets of water by the doors. Most of all, she remembers Jowan.

"That was all I wished to hear," Zevran said quietly beside her.

* * *

**A/N: **Sadly, I am behind my writing so instead of every three days, I will now be updating every 5 days. I'm sorry guys I know I promised regular updates but my busy schedule ruins all.

Anyway, please review and tell me what you think. Btw, James is Filauria's mabari. :)


	7. Chapter 7

She recently realized that she knew next to nothing about Zevran. All through her journey, she'd made it a point to talk to everyone she meets, hear their story… but because Zevran always got on her nerves for one reason or another, she hadn't gotten the chance to actually _converse_ with him.

And so, one night at camp during their journey to Orzammar, she sits beside him and prompts a conversation.

"So," she draws out. Zevran raises an eyebrow at her as he sharpens his blades. She idly realizes that she'd given one of those blades to him.

"You… you kept it," she says in surprise, picking up the saw blade gingerly from the ground.

Zevran shrugs. "It's a good sword," he says to her. "I might even consider using it on a regular basis."

Filauria blinks up at him. "R-really?" she asks, "I… thank you."

In truth, she'd thought he was going to throw or sell the blade away when she'd given it to him. After all, it had been rusty and dull. But looking at it now, with all the rust gone and the edges sharper, it looked like a new blade. And, even though she wasn't a rogue, she can say that it was a handsome sword indeed.

"Surely you've come here for a reason, no?" Zevran says to her, moving to put his blades away. Suddenly, he smirks. "Unless you've come solely to ogle at my _sword_."

Filauria turns beet-red at the innuendo. She clears her throat and immediately hands him the saw sword hilt-first, biting back the first comment that had come into her mind.

After all, she came to him to engage in conversation, not lose her temper.

She takes a deep breath. "I, uh… wanted to ask you… how it is being an assassin."

Zevran leans back and studies her curiously. "I didn't think you were interested, my warden."

"I'm n—" she begins, then clears her throat. Goddamnit why is it so hard to be _nice_ to him! "I mean, of course I am," she amends. "I asked, didn't I?"

The light-haired elf gives her a knowing smirk before he answers. "Well," he begins, "the crows would have you believe that it is an involved process that takes years of training – a kind that tests both your resolve and endurance. Survive that process and maybe – just maybe – you're good enough to be considered as one of them."

Filauria thinks of this for a moment. "You said that that's what the crows would like people to believe – what's the truth?"

"The truth," Zevran continues, "is all it requires is the desire to kill people for a living. It's surprising how well one can do in such a field."

Filauria tilts her head to one side, genuinely intrigued at his comment. "So you like killing people then?"

"An assassin is more a tactical choice than a lifestyle," Zevran replies. "Of course the Crows would like it better if their training is shrouded in mystery."

The raven-haired girl frowns, realizing that Zevran hadn't really answered her question. She tells him just that. "You didn't say if you liked killing people or not."

Zevran smiles at her as he stands. "No, I did not," he says. "Now come. I think dinner is almost ready."

He walks away before she can even say another word.


	8. Chapter 8

Her talk with Zevran just confirmed her initial theory that she knew _nothing _about him. He, however, seemed to know _a lot _of things about her.

That morning, before she'd even announced to the group that she was looking for her hair tie, Zevran had already been there, offering her one of his.

"You can use this for the meantime," he'd said to her, before quietly walking away.

He also seems to know that she prefers her drinks a little bit cold, or that she doesn't like taking the last shift in watch duty.

Also… he seems to be strangely aware whenever she is lying.

It must've been because of those two weeks of watching her every move, she thinks. She narrows her eyes. Perhaps it is good for her to start watching his every move, too.

…Unfortunately, she hasn't thought about what to say to him when he catches her staring.

Like now.

"Not that I have any qualms of you staring at my back, my warden," Zevran says with a light tone. "I do wonder what you are thinking about while you are doing it."

Filauria fights the blush that is beginning to dust her cheeks. They are currently being led to the Orzammar Royal Palace, having just proven their allegiance to Prince Bhelen. She knows she should be paying more attention to her surroundings since the place is unfamiliar, but the light-haired assassin tends to invade her mind more often than she'd like to admit.

"I was just… I was just studying your blade straps," she says, looking away from his knowing look.

"Of course you were," Zevran chuckles.

Vartag Gavorn, Prince Bhelen's finally moves to a halt. "Here are your quarters," he announces to the group.

Alistair's amber-gold eyes sweep through the area behind where Vartag is standing. "Exactly _which_ of these rooms?" he asks, gesturing to door after door after door.

"Prince Bhelen has generously spared seven of his guest rooms to the Grey Warden and her companions," the prince's second answers.

"That means I get to have a room as well, doesn't it? Oh, how quaint!" Shale chirps happily from behind her.

"I call dibs on the first one!" Alistair announces, bolting to the nearest room.

"Thank you for your kindness, Ser," Wynne says politely. "Please give our utmost gratitude to Prince Bhelen."

"Of course," Vartag replies, bowing in courtesy, first to Filauria, then to Wynne. The others had already begun picking their own rooms after Alistair, with James barking happily after them.

"I think I shall retire early tonight," Wynne says to her, walking to the nearest room available. "It has been quite a long journey."

Filauria nods. "Of course," she says. "Goodnight, Wynne."

Seeing as all of the nearest rooms had already been taken, Filauria moved to one of the rooms by the end of the hall, catching up to Zevran who seemed to be taking his time in walking.

"_You're_ certainly not as excited as the others had been," Filauria comments as she moves to her chosen room.

"I am." Zevran smiles. "I just like enjoying the artistry of this hallway, no? Very intricate designs, if I may say."

Filauria rolls her eyes at him. "Yeah right," she says. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight, my warden," Zevran replies as he turns to his door.

Truly, if Filauria hadn't hesitated at that moment and had not looked back at him, she wouldn't have seen it – the barely-concealed wince as Zevran pushed the heavy door open.

Filauria moves to his side at an instant.

"You're injured," she says, pulling his wrist from his side to inspect the ripped leather armor. There is no blood visible, but that doesn't mean there isn't internal bleeding. If Filauria is to make a guess, it must be a broken rib.

"It's nothing but a scratch, my warden," Zevran assures, pulling his hand away from hers.

"Scratch my ass," Filauria scoffed.

The elven assassin raises his eyebrows at her. "Well, certainly, if you'd want," he teases.

Filauria scowls and pokes his side to prove a point. Zevran barely conceals his flinch.

She crosses her arms at her chest when he looks down at her disapprovingly. "Get inside and take of your armor and let me have a look at that, okay?"

He stares her down for a full minute and, realizing that she wasn't going to go anywhere, obliges. Filauria follows her to his room and closes the door behind her.

She fishes an injury kit from her pack and turns around… only to find him leaning against a table across the room, his arms crossed at his chest in only his _small clothes_.

_Are you fucking kidding me?_

"You –" Filauria begins, feeling the tell-tale heat of a blush coming up her face. Zevran raises an eyebrow challengingly. Filauria grits her teeth, willing herself to calm down.

_Zevran is only doing this to distract you. Get a grip, Filauria. Get a grip_.

"Sit," she orders, opening the kit and arranging its contents across the floor.

She feels, rather than hears, Zevran sit by the bed and watch her.

"I have found, in my travels, that some people find this position stimulating," Zevran comments amusedly. "And although could not understand what they were talking about then, I certainly understand _now_."

She raises her head to ask him what he is talking about when realization strikes her.

He is sitting by the edge of the bed, looking down at her and she is… _kneeling _in front of him… of sorts.

To someone who has no idea what is actually going on, it would look like she was giving him a –

She sees his eyes darken. "Well, my warden?" she hears him say in his teasing tone, but there is a certain tension in his jaw and stiffness in his shoulders as he says it.

Filauria clears her throat and moves beside him. "Right," she says, feeling the tug of magic around her as she mends his injury.

To say the situation had been awkward is an understatement. She doesn't think Zevran not teasing her for once would feel… strangely uncomfortable.

She pushes more healing magic to her palms, deciding it is better to speed the process up and get it over with. The effort had led her to lean forward a bit, causing a stray lock of hair fall down her face. She attempts to blow it out, but to no avail.

She is about to break the healing magic, but Zevran reaches to tuck the stray lock of hair behind her ear before she can do it herself.

Filauria raises her head to meet his eyes, and suddenly, she is very aware of her own heart beating loudly against her chest.

He sees his eyes glance down to her lips before finding hers again.

And then he is leaning… slowly…

She licks her lips unconsciously. She feels the healing magic in her hands dim as his face nears hers. He meets her eyes for a moment, a silent question – frankly, she is too worked up to answer verbally. She slants her face and presses her lips hard against his.

She thinks she hears Zevran grunt, but she is not sure. She circles her arms around his neck and he feels his hands snake around her waist. She feels him nip her lower lip and she moans in pleasure as he slips his tongue inside her mouth.

Her right hand slides from his hair to his chest, and down to his well-toned stomach.

And then, Zevran flinches.

Filauria quickly, but carefully pulls back, realizing that she hadn't really finished healing him yet.

Zevran lets out a quiet laugh. "I apologize," he says, watching her as she fumbles out of his lap and continues what she had been doing before… well before _that_ happened. "That was rather anti-climactic, wasn't it?"

She fixes him a half-hearted glare before finishing. Then, she stands, gathers her pack, and walks out of his room without saying another word.

The moment she closes her own door behind her, she allows herself to sink to the floor. The clanging of glass against the floor accompanies her descend.

She touches the tips of her fingers to her lips.

_What just happened?_

* * *

**A/N:** Ooh, sexual tension. Haha. Here's an update for you guys. Do drop a review! Thanks!


	9. Chapter 9

It isn't like she wants to avoid him or anything. The truth is she just does not know what to _do_ now.

The days that followed after the kiss had been busy – full of scheming, fighting and political debates. But now that they are back at the surface, she has become fidgety and altogether unsure about what her next actions would be.

"Are you feeling well, Filauria?" Leliana asks, placing a warm hand on her shoulder. At the corner of her eyes she sees Zevran glance at her with an unreadable expression.

"I'm fine," Filauria says, offering the bard an assuring smile. She turns to her companions. "Ready for the road?"

She hears Ogrhen sigh. "Give me a moment," he says, looking up at the sky. Filauria follows his gaze and finds that the familiar warmth of the sun comforting.

"Sure, take your time," the elven mage says, closing her eyes for a brief moment.

"By the Stone…" Ogrhen breathes out. "I feel like… I'm going to fall of the world with all that sky up there."

She glances at the dwarf who'd spent most of his life underground and feels a familiar twinge of being overwhelmed pull at her chest. She'd felt awestruck as well, the first time she'd set foot out of the Circle Tower.

"Is it that strange for you?" she asks.

Ogrhen turns to her with a dry laugh. "Strange?" he echoes. "Strange is your wife turning out to prefer ladies – not living in a world without a bleeding ceiling."

Filauria lets out a good-natured chuckle. "Well, I guess 'strange' isn't the word one would use."

"Well, let's get moving," Ogrhen says, adjusting the binds of his war axe. "We're losing… whatchacallit? Daylight."


	10. Chapter 10

He corners her by the lake while she is filling up the water bottles by a stream not too far from camp. She jumps in surprise and drops the flasks to the ground. Zevran looks down at her in amusement.

"Really? You had to come up behind me like some blighted shade?" Filauria comments dryly, hastily picking up the flasks. She notices the dirt dusting the opening of one and she scowls. "Great, now I have to clean these up."

"Well, my warden, you must understand I am pretty desperate," Zevran says lightly, taking two of the flasks from her arms and dipping them into the stream. "After all, you have eluded me for three weeks now, and I am really in need of an audience with you."

"Couldn't you at least do it at camp," she mutters weakly, although she already knows his answer to that.

Zevran chuckles darkly. "Yes, because that had worked so well before."

He'd attempted to talk to her once in Orzammar, the morning after the… _incident_. She'd turned away and pretended to listen intently to the dwarven lady who'd been looking for her son. He'd attempted that same night, too, but she'd brushed him off saying she was tired from the long day of chasing Carta members.

The next time he'd tried was the first night they set camp after leaving Orzammar – that was about a week ago, also to no avail.

Somehow, Filauria understood Zevrans sneaky, albeit underhanded, tactic.

"Okay, so talk," the elven mage says refusing to look him straight in the eye.

"You and I kissed. Now what?"

Filauria flinched. _That _was straight to the point.

"I didn't realize that mattered," Filauria says, keeping her voice as detached as possible. "We go back to the way we were before, I guess."

Zevran turns to her with a stony expression. "So that's what you've been doing?" he asks, with an edge of sharpness in his tone. "'Going back to the way we were before'?"

Filauria gives him the hardest glare she can muster before she moves to gather the already-filled flasks beneath her feet.

Zevran is immediately on his feet, arms crossed at his chest and blocking her path back to the campsite. "I am not inexperienced, Filauria. And not blind, either," Zevran tells her. "I know when a woman wants me."

Filauria scoffs. "You think I _want _you?"

Zevran raises an eyebrow. "You think you do not?"

The elven mage scowls. "_No_." Is it just her or did that sound pathetic?

He stares her down for a few moments before he sighs. He rubs his right thumb and forefinger against his temples. "Look, I apologize if you do not wish to talk about this, but I am only doing this to find common ground," the assassin says, in a softer tone. "Our companions have already started asking, have they not? If you wish me to act like it never happened, then tell me. I would accept whatever decision you make."

Filauria presses her lips tightly together. What does she want? Truly, she did not know. It would be a lie to say that the kiss had meant nothing to her. Even now, when she thinks about it – Filauria conceals a shudder.

But no. This was wrong. There was a blight to defeat.

And, really? With Zevran? He _infuriated _her! How could they possibly go past what they are now?

She sighs. "Alright," Filauria says in a clipped tone. "I acknowledge it happened – but it shouldn't have. What happened that night at Orzammar – it was a mistake."

She watches as Zevran pulls a perfectly stoic mask across his aristocratic features. She does not know what to make of it. His posture had not changed, but there is certain… emotion in his eyes that she cannot read.

Scorn? Fury?

…Sadness?

And suddenly, the emotionless masks turn into a wide grin. All traces of the seriousness of their previous conversation have completely disappeared from his face.

"Well then, my warden," Zevran says lightly, picking up the remaining flasks from the ground. "Shall we go back?"

Filauria blinks as she watches Zevran walk silently back to camp.

She'd expected fury, questions, a request for an explanation – but not that. She'd certainly not expected that.

She takes a step after him, and another, wondering if she'd made the right decision.


	11. Chapter 11

Moving on from their little confrontation by the stream was easier said than done – at least for Filauria. To Zevran, she thinks, it is easy as pie.

It had not taken long for him to revert to his old ways – flirting here and there with occasional innuendoes.

The only difference now is that he didn't pay special interest to her anymore.

No longer did his stares linger, or his eyes darken when he looks at her.

Filauria, strangely, does not know what to make of that.

_As usual, Filauria, everything you touch dies_, a nagging voice inside her head says.

She remembers Jowan and how _that _had ended.

The elven mage sighs as she marks their route back to Denerim in her map, wishing the constant headache to be gone from her head – a headache she knows no touch of healing magic can cure.

It is too late now, anyway, she thinks.

And there are more pressing matters to attend to than dwell on 'what had been' –

…or what could have.


	12. Chapter 12

If there is one thing that hadn't changed, it's the fact that Zevran always seemed to be so intent on getting under Filauria's skin.

While she admits that maybe sometimes she needed to let all her pent-up emotions out, she hates the way he does it.

Zevran is especially fond of making her say aloud the things that she does not want to admit.

"Do you doubt other people so much that you constantly have to give them gifts to assure that you are in their good graces?"

She blinks up at him, surprised. Zevran weighs the gold bar she had given him in his palms. "What?" she asks incredulously.

"Not that I do not appreciate your little trinkets, my warden," Zevran looks at her with a curious glint in his eyes. "But has it not crossed your mind that maybe that is the reason why it is so hard for you to gain another's loyalty?"

She clenches her fists at her sides. They are at the far end of the camp, a little further from their companions – far enough to go unheard.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Filauria says through gritted teeth.

"Oh?" the assassin raises an eyebrow and takes a step closer to her. "You ask somebody to accompany you, and in exchange you give them a new breastplate or new gloves or a new blade. We fight and you give me this," his eyes glance at the block of gold in his hands. "You are so bent on getting on somebody's good graces, my warden."

Filauria reaches to snap the gold bar from his arms, and Zevran sidesteps and raises the bar out of her reach. His movement is to quick, however, and she stumbles forward, unable to anticipate his movement.

Zevran'sfree arm wraps around her waist and catches her easily, looking down at her with a smirk.

She immediately pushes out of his hold. "If you don't want it, then give it back!" Filauria says, flushed and furious.

"I never said I didn't," Zevran replies. Filauria grits her teeth and thinks of the many ways she can wipe that sodding smirk out of his face.

"Why do you keep on antagonizing me!" She reaches for the gold bar again, but he swiftly moves back. She stomps her feet childishly in frustration. Not too far away, James moves to his feet and tilts his head curiously at the two.

"I apologize if I give that kind of impression, my warden," Zevran says. "Truly, I am just trying to figure you out."

"Figure _me _out?" Filauria echoes. She crosses her arms at her chest and adds sarcastically, "Yeah, 'cause constantly trying to piss me off is easier than actually trying to talk to me."

The light-haired elf raises one perfect eyebrow. "Actually, you are quite right."

Filauria growls and tackles him, but he is too strong. He shifts her as they fall, with him on top and with her at the bottom – quite the opposite of what she'd intended, actually.

"So did you do this with Jowan, too?" the elf asks, sounding innocent. "Shower him with presents so he could follow you?"

Her eyes flash with anger as she tries to push him off her, but to no avail. _How dare he_!

Zevran grabs both her arms and pins them on the ground, just above her head.

"Maybe that's why he chose another woman over you," he says, leaning down to look her straight in the eye. She feels his breath on her face, and for a moment she remembers a memory of that night in Orzammar. It is gone as soon as it arrives. "Because he never felt like he really did something for you out of the goodness of his heart."

_"__You have to help Lily and I get out of here. Please, I beg of you 'Lauria."_

She remembers his face, his voice; she remembers the hurt, the betrayal.

_"__I know… but – I can't explain it, 'Lauria. I'd do _anything_ for her. Anything – I don't care if I never get anything in return. I don't care if I get hurt. Seeing her smile would be enough."_

"SHUT UP!" Filauria screams at the top of her lungs. The world around her blurs, and she isn't quite sure what had happened next, but the next thing she remembers is Alistair's arms around her waist and seeing a very disoriented-looking Zevran being helped up by Leliana. She thinks she sees Wynne hurrying to the scene with a very concerned expression.

"You had _no right _to say that!" Filauria continued, thrashing out of Alistair's strong hold.

"Hey, hey, break it up, Filauria. That's enough," Alistair whispers in her ear. She feels the familiar limiting feeling of being under a Templar's nullification circle around her and her whole body slackens. Her breaths come out ragged and uneven and she feels tears fall down her face.

_"__It isn't like when I'm with you, 'Lauria._"

He had smiled at her.

Jowan had smiled at her when he said it – eternally oblivious to how she feels about him. She had forced a smile to her face as well, hiding the hurt and pushing back the tears.

_I would have done everything for you._

_"__I think I really do love her."_

"You had no right to say that," she repeats, but this time she sounded broken.

This time she allows herself to break.


	13. Chapter 13

"You are going to get yourself killed," Alistair deadpanned.

Zevran glances at him with a raised eyebrow as he straps his leather armor on. "It will not be the first time I go to battle, little bastard prince. I think I will be able to manage myself just fine," he answers. And then adds as an afterthought, "I appreciate the concern, however. I did not realize you cared."

Alistair growls. "That _wasn't_ what I was talking about," the Templar says, crossing his arms. "Really, it's hard not to see why Filauria finds you so hateable."

Zevran reaches down to tighten the laces on his leather boots. "Ah, then I am most curious as to what your reason for being here is," he replies.

The Templar glares at him for a moment before he sighs and rubs his temples. "I was talking about Filauria," Alistair says.

The elven assassin straightens to his feet and looks at him with an amused glint to his light brown eyes. "I do not think 'hate' is the word to describe how she feels for me, no?"

Alistair's eyes narrow. "No, but that certainly is what I feel about you."

Zevran throws him a sinister smirk. "The feeling is mutual, then," he replies.

He sees the grey warden straighten his posture and clench his jaw. Alistair is taller than he is, but he is quicker, more agile. He can divert Alistair's built against himself, if need be. It would not take long to bring him down, he thinks.

They stare at each other for a long while before the Templar sighs. Zevran smirks again. Ah, so he is not here to battle after all. Pity.

"As I was saying," Alistair begins again. "It wouldn't be wise to keep provoking Filauria like that. It is hard for mages to control their magic when their emotions are at high. Filauria is good at what she does because she is adept at keeping her emotions at bay. It wouldn't do well for you to keep on angering her."

Zevran gives him a feral grin. "Ah, the cowardly way out, I see." He keeps his tone light, but he feels his fingers twitch in irritation. To another person, it would look like he is completely calm, but in truth he is fighting the strong urge to draw his blade and slash this man's throat. It would only take five seconds for him to do it.

"Filauria needs _feel_ in order to learn to control her magic," the elf says. "Your way is a pathetic method that limits her potential. You are attempting to stop the blight and kill an archdemon, no? And what of when she is suddenly overcome by her emotions during that battle, loses control and kills both of you in the process? No more grey wardens, and no more chance of survival for your beloved country."

"Filauria won't lose control," Alistair says through gritted teeth. "Not if _you're_ not there to anger her."

"Anger is not the only emotion in the book, little prince," Zevran say with a sharp edge to his voice. "There is sadness, grief. There is sorrow accompanied by death."

"Nobody is going to die –"

"No? You know you lie. And you know I am right," the elf interrupts. He feels a sense of superiority when he sees Alistair's posture slacken. "Filauria _needs _to feel. She is not an object. She is alive and she must be allowed to _live_."

Zevran studies Alistair's conflicted expression for a moment before he turns and walks away.


	14. Chapter 14

She doesn't think she will ever be able to get over her grief over the tragedy at Ostagar.

Until her dying moment she will forever look back at the day all those people died because of one man's treachery.

She tightens her grip at the parchment in her hands.

"Filauria…" Alistair says gently. She looks up to see her other companions looking at her, some with concern, and others with curiosity.

They are at the North Road, halfway through their journey from Orzammar to Denerim when they had heard a commotion not too far away.

She remembers Elric Maraigne's lifeless body, covered in his own blood, and she adds it to the list of people she could not save.

"We need to get those documents," Filauria says finally.

"Oh?" Morrigan raises an eyebrow. "And you think that is wise? There is a blight upon us, Warden. Any moment those wretched creatures may appear at our doorstep and kills us all, and you think a detour like this one is a good idea?"

"The witch is right," Sten adds, looking at her sternly. "I do not approve of looking for the remains of a dead woman, but I had agreed because I saw cause that it is necessary. But this is foolishness."

"It's not," Filauria says to them in a hard voice. "I know we are under tight schedule as it is, but this '_little detour_' is important to me."

The dark-haired witch rolls her eyes. "Yes because _your_ problems are bigger than everyone else's."

"Watch your mouth!" Alistair takes a step forward and glares at Morrigan. The witch's yellow eyes narrow at the Templar, but says nothing.

Leliana puts a reassuring hand on Filauria's shoulder. "I will follow you whatever your decision may be, Filauria, but how do you think we can go back to Ostagar with so the so little time we have left?"

Filauria gives her a thankful smile, and then looks at each of her companions meaningfully. "We split up."

Their reactions are instantaneous.

"_What_?"

"I am not certain that is wise –"

"Filauria, I don't think –"

"Blasted pigeons!"

Filauria sighs inwardly. She studies each of their reactions one by one. True to her word, Leliana says nothing against her decision, but looks at her with concern. There is a certain glint of hope in Alistair's eyes, but he voices his concern about the safety journey if they split up. Wynne looks at her anxiously, seeming to try to figure out what she's thinking by making such a decision. Morrigan and Sten looks entirely against the idea, the only difference is that Sten doesn't seem to think there is much use in speaking against it, and he is right. Even James whines quietly at the corner.

The only ones who don't react are Shale and Ogrhen – who both doesn't seem to care wherever they go next, most of the time – and Zevran.

His eyes find hers.

He is looking at her with an odd expression. She tilts her head slightly and frowns, not breaking eye contact.

Around her, the gang are already debating amongst themselves what to do next.

And then, ever-so-slightly, Zevran nods once.

Filauria blinks. She hears the unspoken message.

_Go_.

Filauria takes in a deep breath. "Please!"

The world silences around her. All sets of eyes at the camp are looking at her now.

Slowly, she falls down on her knees.

Alistair takes a step forward. "Filauria –"

"Please," she repeats, barely a whisper. She remembers hearing their screams that day. She remembers the sound of metal against metal, blade through flesh.

She remembers death.

"This is the only thing I will ask of you." She closes her fingers around the cloth of her tattered robes. "Of all of you."

None of the others speak. She bows her head in plea. "I need to do this."

The silence draws on; until she hears a pair of footsteps walking towards her. Leliana gently reaches for both her arms, and pulls her up.

"We are sorry, Filauria," Leliana says softly, her eyes shining with shame. "We are all too quick to ask from you, but this we cannot grant to you as easily as you would to us."

Filauria offers her a quick smile, before glancing nervously at her companions. The others avert their gazes with lips pressed tightly together.

"I will stay with the others to Denerim," Wynne says quietly, finally looking at her with a sad expression. "Even though I, too, would like to go back to Ostagar, the other would need a healer with them."

Filauria nods and smiles at her. "Thank you, Wynne."

"I would like to come with you," Alistair walks towards her, reaching to hold her right hand. "I need this, too."

Filauria nods again.

She turns to look at Zevran, who is quietly watching from not too far away.

"Would you like to come?" she asks the assassin.

The others follow her gaze curiously, well-aware of their argument a few nights prior.

A flash of understanding crosses passes through his light brown eyes. She knows he understands her silent request.

_Please come._

Zevran smirks. "Anything for you, my Warden."

"I would like to come, too!" Leliana offers, still looking at her with guilt-ridden eyes.

Filauria shakes her head. "The others would need a rogue with them, Leliana."

Leliana obliges, but not without a frown.

"I'd need another warrior, I guess." Her eyes automatically falls to Sten, but he growls and looks away. Filauria sighs and turns to the dwarf who is sprawled on the ground, drunk as usual. "Ogrhen?"

"I go where you go, Warden-boss-woman," Ogrhen slurs, taking a sip from his flask. "Heh. Ancestors know what you'd do without me."

The elven mage laughs, tension dissipating from her shoulders. "Oh, yes, Ogrhen. You know you complete me."


	15. Chapter 15

"Figures she'd go for an elf."

She sees Zevran tilt his head towards the red-headed dwarf with a raised eyebrow. "She who?"

They are at Ostagar now – what is left of it anyway. They pass corpses here and there, preserved by the cold weather brought about by the snow. It is all Filauria can manage to not weep and cry at the tragedy of it all. She knows Alistair is not faring any better.

"You and the Warden," Ogrhen answers, smirking. James trots closely behind him. "We all know what's going on there."

Filauria fights the urge to scoff. She wants to comment against Ogrhen's little 'misobservation,' but realizes that it would be rather useless to do so.

After all, Ogrhen has the tendency to reject other people's opinions when he is drunk.

…Which is all the time.

"Oh?" Zevran answers with a light tone. "Does that make you jealous my stout little friend?"

Filauria shoots him a glare at his non-denial. Zevran only winks back at her.

"Me? Ha! The last thing I need is another woman in my life!"

"One wife was enough for you, was she?" Zevran asks.

"Ha. Branka was only more slightly woman than I am – bristle-chinned poetess." Ogrhen reaches to his flask to take another swig of ale.

"Shocking that our fair Grey Warden didn't chose you instead."

Ogrhen shrugs. "Wonders never cease."

They encounter an ogre after that.

* * *

She could not fathom how _anyone_ would put King Cailan to such a disgrace. And by the looks of it, Alistair isn't taking this any better than she is.

"Fucking darkspawn," her fellow warden says in between gritted teeth. There is tension in every inch of his body. His fists are balled so tightly that she can hear the grinding of the metal in his gauntlets. She looks at him sadly.

She had not been a grey warden for long, and she had not even met the fallen king before being recruited, but she is feeling this – this _anguish_ in her heart. It is killing her – it is killing here to be standing in the middle of this wretched, blighted land, full of the bodies of the dead, corpses not even rotting because of the harsh cold.

She looks up. Cailan looks like he is sleeping – his face is peaceful. His face –

_He looks a lot like Alistair_, she thinks.

She cannot even imagine how Alistair feels. After all, this is his brother. Brave, majestic… _dead_.

She walks up towards Alistair and wraps her arms around his waist. His armor is cold against her skin, but she does not care.

This is the only thing she can give him.

Alistair does not embrace her back, but he buries his face in her hair. She is not sure, but she thinks he is crying.

She feels Ogrhen's and Zevran's stares, but she does not care.

She wants to cry. But there are no tears – _tears are unreasonable, tears cannot bring the dead back to life –_

"I'm sorry." This is the only thing she can give him.

* * *

They get moving to find the Darkspawn Cave, beneath the tower of Ishal. Their bags are heavy now, with all the weapons that they cannot even bear to leave behind.

_Someday after the blight I am coming back to this place_, she promises herself_. _Every one of these people deserves a proper burial. Every last one of them.

She feels the tell-tale pull of corruption inside her as the darkspawn approach. She reaches for her staff and aims precisely in between their eyes – a sure kill. Zevran falls to step behind her, just like he always does when they engage into combat. Ready to guard her back and protect her as she summons her magic upon their enemies. Every once in a while, he disappears into a flash, stabs a Hurlock archer, or an emissary firing in the distance, and then comes back to her immediately afterwards.

In the distance, she hears Ogrhen shout in frustration.

"Just – bloody – die – !" the dwarf screams, slashing away with his axe.

Filauria pants in exhaustion. "There are too many of them," she says out loud.

She notices that Zevran is becoming out of breath as well. "Then what do you suppose we do?"

She fires another spell at an approaching enemy and licks her chapped lips. She looks up, and an idea forms into her mind.

"Stay close to me," she tells Zevran. The other elf nods at the order. She raises her voice for the others, "Alistair, Ogrhen! Get out of the way!"

She sees the two warrior's heads turn to her as they begin distance themselves from the enemies.

She summons a blizzard. The darkspawn freeze in their step, eyes darting to and fro frantically, unable to move, but she knows she cannot hold them for long. Not far, Alistair raises his shield, bracing himself for her spell. She sees him cast a circle around himself and Ogrhen – a protection to what he expects to follow.

She draws a deep breath as she raises both of her arms in the air. She is almost out of mana. She only has one chance to do this. She feels pulses of electricity in her fingertips.

She exhales slowly.

Some of the darkspawn have begun to move once more.

_Inhale_.

She feels the tips of her hair stand at the static. Just a little bit more –

_Exhale_.

One of the darkspawn breaks free and starts to charge towards her, but Zevran is quicker. He pulls a poisoned dagger from his belt and throws it towards the Genlock. It lands in between its eyes. A perfect hit.

_Inhale_.

Filauria takes one step back, poising for the tempest to follow.

And when she releases her magic, the whole cave shakes and the ceiling crumbles above them, burying all the darkspawn alive.

But it all happens to fast, and she is unable to calculate the debris falling towards her.

She gasps just as Alistair screams her name.

"_Filauri_a_!_"

She feels a body collide against her, pushing her out of harm's way. When she opens her eyes, Zevran is there, panting in exhaustion.

"That was reckless, you know," the assassin says. There is a hard edge to his tone, so different from the usual teasing, laughing Zevran.

Filauria breathes a sigh of relief. "Sometimes, reckless gets the job done."

Zevran scoffs, catching his breath. They lie in the rubble in silence.

After a while, he speaks again. "It is okay to grieve, you know," he says. She knows he is referring to the death of her brothers and sisters in this cursed land. "It is okay to not appear strong all the time."

She says nothing in return. Instead, she slowly closes her eyes.

And when she opens them again it is night time and she is not in Ostagar anymore.


	16. Chapter 16

She hands him over both the sword and the dagger hilt-first. She and Zevran are the only ones at the camp at the moment.

Zevran looks up at her curiously, knowing very well that the weapons she is giving him this time are not of ordinary sorts. "Are you sure?" he asks, glancing down at the blades, then up to her face once more.

Filauria presses her lips into a tight line and nods. "I'm sure," she says. "It would honor them most to put their weapons into good use."

Zevran takes the blades carefully, taking a particular interest at the runed sword, which glinted in the firelight – the legendary sword of King Maric.

"Shouldn't Alistair be the one to use this?" Zevran inquires, still awed at the blade's sheer beauty.

"He wanted to use, Duncan's," Filauria answers as she moves to sit with him by the fire. "He also has Cailan's shield with him now."

Filauria brings her knees close to her chest and wraps her arms around them tightly. She'd also given Zevran Duncan's dagger, with Alistairs consent. They had agreed that the only way to honor their sacrifice is to use their weapons against the thing they had died for.

She looks on quietly to the fire, remembering that night at Ostagar once more.

She closes her golden green eyes. _Why?_ she asks to whoever is listening. She asks to Andraste – to the Maker. _Why did they all have to die?_

"Filauria," Zevran calls her name softly. Filauria's head shoots up in surprise. After all, it is the first time he'd actually called her by her name. There is certain… warmth in his eyes as he looks at her.

Zevran carefully puts the blades down and reaches to touch her face. "Thank you," he whispers.

Filauria closes her eyes once more and leans into his palm. She does not know if it is the chill of the night, or the lingering sadness from their visit from Ostagar, but she is grateful for the touch, the warmth…

When she opens her eyes again, she sees Zevran's eyes darken. He moves closer towards her, and she feels her heart begin to beat faster against her chest.

His thumb sweeps through her cheek lightly. "You should not be saddened about being alive, my Warden," he says, his warm breath fanning against her face. He tilts his head slightly and leans closer. "You are Ferelden's hope now."

Filauria slowly closes her eyes.

She feels Zevran's gentle kiss against her lips. The kiss is chaste… cautious - a million light years different from the kiss they'd shared at Orzamar. Yet it sends shivers down her spine just the same. He draws back.

She opens her light green eyes and meets his brown ones. She thinks his eyes are beautiful – like chocolate speckled with gold. It is like looking through water at night. She thinks she might very well drown at its depths.

She reaches towards him before she even has time to think. Her hands find his hair as she kisses him hard, letting all her pent-up frustrations out.

Zevran responds quickly. He licks her bottom lip and she gasps against the kiss. He takes this opportunity to slip his tongue inside her mouth.

She feels his arms pull her closer against his chest. His tongue slips below hers, coaxing her. She moans quietly.

His hand lightly slides from her back to her thigh. She gasps as he pushes her circle robes up, revealing her milky white skin. His thumb draws lazy circles against her flesh and she feels goose bumps run along her arms and her back.

"Zevran," she whispers, suddenly unsure. Zevran bites her lower lip lightly before tilting her head with his free hand to press open-mouthed kisses against her throat. She moans when he reaches the sensitive spot at the juncture of her neck and shoulder.

Zevran's other hand slides down her arm now. And then to her waist, then back up to the side of her breast. She pants heavily at the sensation. Zevran bites hard against her neck and she gasps loudly in pleasure, despite the sting. He showers light kisses up her neck, to her jaw, and finally, his mouth finds hers again.

…_That's _when she hears the footsteps.

Filauria pushes Zevran off of her with a start, and just in time. A moment longer and they might have been seen by Ogrhen and Alistair who had been scouting the perimeter.

Zevran casts her an amused look before she hastily pulls her robes down and attempts to fix her hair.

Filauria glares at him in return, blushing.

"Shut up," she says through gritted teeth.

Zevran chuckles. "I don't believe I've even said anything yet, my warden."

* * *

**Author's Notes:**

Hello, my lovely reader! Thank you for sticking with me through my very short chapters. I have found that it is better this way since I am notorious for leaving my fics on hiatus for long periods of time. Fear not, however, because since the chapters I post are short, I've been ahead of my writing for some time so expect for some regularity between my posting. I post whenever I remember, and whenever I can squeeze it into my tight schedule but rest assured I _will_ finish this one.

Also, I really appreciate all the positive feedback I am getting. I am not a chatty author, and I rarely put notes in my publications, but it's good to know that despite that, there are people who speak to the person behind all the Zevran-ness and Filauria-ness of it all. (Also, I most of the time don't make sense, so that's that.)

I love, love, love you guys! I don't have a beta reader so if you encounter confusing sentences, wrong grammar and whatnot that I fail to edit because I've read the lines so many times already that it becomes a chore to read by them _one by one_, drop me a review so I can go and correct it and everything.

So there goes my long-ish note. Again, reader, I love you. Bye~


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